longer. But the path to it was much more traveled, and there was a board walk built up through it beside the brook, so that it did not seem so wild nor impressive as the smaller flume on Kinsman. They soon passed through it, found the path up Liberty, and began to climb.
As on all the White Mountains, the first part of the climb led through woods, and no views were to be had, neither of the summit ahead nor the valley behind. It was a steep path, too, much steeper than the Benton Trail up Moosilauke, though not so steep as the Beaver Brook Trail down which they had tumbled the day before. At first everybody was chattering gaily, and Peanut and Art were telling over again all their experiences of the night before. But gradually, as the sun mounted, as the trail grew still steeper and rockier, as their packs and blankets got heavier and hotter, conversation died out. Everybody was panting. Rob, who was pacemaker for the morning, would plod away, and then set his pack down to rest. The others rested when he did, and no oftener. Climbing began to be mechanical. Art consulted his watch and his pedometer.
"That Appalachian guide book isn't far from right," he admitted to Mr. Rogers. "We aren't making much over a mile an hour."
"That's enough, in this heat," the Scout Master replied. "Better fill canteens at the next spring,
